


Here in Your Bedroom

by knowledgekid



Series: 3 Months in Fillory [1]
Category: The Magicians (TV), The Magicians - Lev Grossman
Genre: Brakebills South messes everyone up, Eliot has way too many pillows, F/M, Rating: M, margo is sweary, quentin is depressed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-09-05 01:16:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16800796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knowledgekid/pseuds/knowledgekid
Summary: Set just after Quentin frees Alice and Margo's made a deal with the fairies. Neither's feeling particularly wonderful, and they both retreat to Eliot's bed for some cuddle time — not knowing that Eliot's off with Fen. Time for some graphic distraction sex!





	Here in Your Bedroom

**Author's Note:**

> Set just after Quentin frees Alice and Margo's made a deal with the fairies. Both feel like shit about their individual decisions, and retreat to Eliot's bed for some stress-free cuddle time. Except Eliot's off having thai food — or, um, completing his marital duty with Fen. What happens when two miserable, isolated magicians find themselves half-naked in someone else's bed? Well, considering one of them is Margo, it's sort of inevitable.

Quentin was depressed. Again. It was like an unwanted pet, this stupid malaise that followed him around and occasionally tugged at his shirttails: _Remember how you hate yourself? Remember how you fail at everything? Remember how you’re even a king and now you’re failing spectacularly at that, too?_

Eliot had been there. He had, as Margo said, a perpetual low-grade death wish, and if anyone understood what it meant to feel like a total waste of oxygen, it was Eliot. He’d first figured Quentin out when he found him late on night chain smoking on the Cottage roof. Quentin had left their bed and crawled up there to hide from — well, Eliot, for starters, followed by the rest of the world. But Eliot had woken, used some kind of locator spell, because who the hell leaves their almost-sort-of-kinda-boyfriend in a sound sleep at 3 am, and discovered Q hunched in his own private misery, too out of it to even bother with magic smoke rings. 

“Always tell me,” Eliot urged him. “Always find me. Why do you think Bambi and I share a bed half the time? She gets it, too. You don’t have to do this alone anymore, Q.”

So even though Quentin was mostly convinced he was being a monumental pain the ass, he started crawling into Eliot’s bed when things got bad. Eliot never said anything about it, just rested against him, sometimes spooning him, sometimes back to back. _As if we’re both watching out for each other,_ Quentin thought. Often Margo was already there, and she’d sleepily move over to make room. Usually she kept to Eliot’s other side, but a few times, when depression had Q clutched hard, she flipped over and sandwiched Quentin between the two of them. She’d start out turned away from him, but when he woke, she’d always be cuddled against his side, breath warm on his neck. She snored softly, little girly snuffles Q found hilariously un-Margoish and she vehemently denied. Eliot would be sprawled — he always sprawled; true to form, he was an inveterate bed hog. These cuddle puddles were always the best, always woke Quentin feeling a little more capable of facing down life. 

So one night, when he was feeling particularly like he should have Niffined out instead of Alice (another failure on his part: _Quentin says go free_ ), he wandered up through the torchlit hallways of Whitespire, from his (slightly less) gargantuan bedroom to Eliot’s (slightly more) gargantuan bedroom (though his was less echo-y. He’d stuffed it full of rich furniture and tapestries as soon as he’d gotten the chance). Thank whatever god or gods Fen kept her own chamber. He waved the guards away and pushed open the door. “Eliot?” he called. 

No answer. 

He shut himself in and approached the heavily canopied bed. A fire crackled in the enormous fireplace; it smelled warm and smoky and threw lovely shifting shadows on the stone walls. “Eliot?” he said again. He felt like a kid sneaking into his parent’s bed after a bad dream. 

A figure rolled over. “He’s with Fen,” High Queen Margo said sleepily, one camisoled shoulder visible over the mounds of pillowed feather and satin. “But I don’t think he’d mind if you hopped in, Q.” 

“Thanks, Margo,” Quentin said. “It’s been a shitty night.” 

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” she said into the blankets. “Do you want to talk about it?” 

“Not really.” He paused. “Do you?” 

“Fuck no. Now get your ass in here so I can go back to sleep.” 

Quentin kicked off his soft, not-quite-slipper-shoes — palace shoes, for wandering around the back end of Whitespire — and wiggled underneath the mound of covers. Margo curled against him and made a small, contented sound. 

Quentin almost leapt out of bed. He hadn’t exactly expected many clothes. Fillorian women slept in some kind of weird shift thing that Margo had immediately deemed sackcloth before beginning her own personal smuggling mission for actual Earth pjs. So when he saw the camisole, he assumed a matching pair of pajama pants, at least some shorts. But from the feel of it, she was wearing nothing but a pair of _ohmygod was that like, actual silk?_ underwear. Luckily, she was curled with her back against his, so she couldn’t feel him getting hard in his stupid loose Fillorian pants. At least they’d managed to figure out drawstring pants for guys, but those didn’t leave much to the imagination. 

He didn’t think she’d done it on purpose. She probably just didn’t think, stereotypical Margo move: invite a guy into bed for comfort cuddling and forget she was half-dressed. And that she was last person he’d actually slept with. And that the sex had been sort of mind-blowing, at least on his end. 

He thought about asking her to put on some pants, but figured it would just piss her off, so he tried to think about something else. Anything else. Before his go-to had been Fillory, but now that he was actually here and actually depressed, it seemed sort of redundant. 

Eventually, his raging hard-on died down, and Quentin must have fallen asleep, because at some point, he woke up. And he woke the same way he always woke up with Margo: her curled around him. Breasts pressed against his chest, legs tangled between his; her head rested on his shoulder — luckily not the wooden one. Uncharacteristic girly snores snuffled in his ear. She had pressed full against him, and that leg thrown over him was completely, perfectly, gloriously bare. Gods, he could feel the heat radiating from the juncture of her thighs. 

“Margo,” he whispered hoarsely. “Margo. You have to flip over.” 

She made some sort of growly noise in her sleep. Quentin could just make out her wrinkling her nose and furrowing her brow in the dying light of the fire. 

“Flip over,” he said with a little more authority and a bit of a shove. Her thigh was dangerously close to his tented erection.

She made another discontented sound and turned in her sleep, but sort of grabbed him in the process so he turned with her. She settled in as the little spoon, wiggled a bit to get comfortable. Her ass ground deliciously against him. 

At least before she wasn’t in actual physical contact with his cock. 

She smelled so fucking good. He had forgotten how good she smelled this close up. His nose rested against the back of her neck, and that was almost as bad as her ass, honestly: since the time he’d spent as a fox, he had developed a thing for the backs of necks. Nuzzling them. Sniffing them — gods, why did girls always smell so good right there? And biting them. Especially biting them. 

Margo moved her hips a little more, settled more firmly against him. Was Eliot planning to stay with Fen all night? The only thing more embarrassing than inadvertently pressing his hard cock against Margo’s ass was Eliot catching him at it. 

A bare arm reached out of the blankets and flipped dark hair up and over the pillow, exposing the back of her neck. “Better?” she murmured. She twisted her hips a bit. Quentin could feel the silk against his cotton pants, the friction sweet and slippery against his cock. 

She’d also spent time at Brakebills South. 

He wanted to move a hair’s breadth and press his lips to her neck, but he hesitated. As good as this felt — as long as it had been and as good as it had been before — he didn’t know how great of an idea this was, fucking the high queen when both of them were in Eliot’s bed, for fuck’s sake, because they were too depressed to sleep alone. 

“Are you going to try to make me beg, Q?” Margo asked, voice still thick with sleep. “I don’t do begging, sweetie.” 

“I’m just not sure this is a great idea,” Quentin whispered. There were, he recalled, people standing just outside the door. 

“I think we could both use a good distraction right about now.” She moved against him again, slower this time, but harder. He bit his lip. “This one works pretty well for me. And if I remember right, you’ve got a really big, thick cock, don’t you, Quentin Coldwater? One that drips as soon as you get turned on?” 

Quentin could already feel the front of his pajamas dampening with precum. Damn her, she would remember a detail like that. And know it would be worse since he’d gone so long without. 

“I told you before,” she continued, “that always makes me want to lick it off.” 

He crushed his lips against the back of her neck. She smelled like vanilla and something else, some Fillorian flower he couldn’t name, but she tasted like sweet and salt mixed together. He didn’t realize he remembered her taste so well until he did. She arched her back, pressed her ass into him and bowed her head down to give him better access. That bow was enough: he bit her, hard, and she gasped into it. Yeah, Maykovsky definitely foxified her at Brakebills South. He thrust as he bit, ground against her. She wouldn’t be wearing her hair up for a few days. He bit another spot and she gasped again. 

“Shhhhh,” he said. He snaked a hand around and touched her lips. “You want Eliot’s guards to hear us?” 

She took a finger into her mouth and sucked, swirled her tongue around it, then sucked again, harder this time. The feeling went straight to his cock. He slipped his wet finger from her mouth, played over her lips for a moment, then thumbed downward. Her nipple was already hard, but his flick made it harder. He flipped at it again before snaking his hand up her flimsy camisole and pinching it between his wet fingers. He rubbed, twisted a bit. He knew she liked it a little bit rough, and was rewarded with tiny moan and an arch backwards. 

Margo suddenly sat up, startling him. She pulled her top off and tossed it. Quentin hoped idly that it didn’t land in the fireplace. She fell back into Eliot’s absurdly fluffy bed and pulled him on top of her. 

This he hadn’t expected. In his limited time with her, she seemed to prefer control. But she bucked her hips up at his cock, and he could already feel a wet warmth spreading between her legs. And she had teased him for being fast. He thrust against her a few times before leaning down on his elbows and kissing her - hard. She caught his lip between her teeth and nipped, then met him kiss for kiss, harder and harder. She was right: they both needed this. Him because of the depression. Her for reasons he couldn’t begin guess. 

Any speculation on his part was fleeting, anyway, because her hands were up under his shirt now, raking down his back. Damn, but she was going to leave some marks. He broke their kiss to shuck off his very earthly t-shirt. Instead of returning to her mouth, he dipped down to her breasts instead. Her gasps turned moans as he took her nipple in his mouth and sucked hard. He pinched the other one while he sucked, then switched between the two. Her hands tangled in his hair. She was wet through that silk now; he could feel it on the underside of his cock pressing against her. 

She reached down between the two of them and grabbed him, then shifted slightly so they were lying side by side. Fillorians had also figured out how a fly worked, and she slipped her hand inside his. As she worked his cock, his foreskin slid over its sensitive head, and the dripping precum made it even slicker. 

“Do you need me to suck it first?” she purred in his ear. “Or would you rather just open me up with it?” She was doing something, some girl trick that involved shimmying out of her underwear without using her hands. 

“God, please let me fuck you,” he said. He reached down to touch her, but she stopped him. 

“Open me up with your cock,” she said. 

He turned his attention to pulling off his pants, and heard her muttering the usual contraception spell. The same one Alice had always used, he realized with a pang. It must be a thing passed around the girls at Brakebills. “Good thing the wellspring’s back,” he said, almost to banish the thought. “I don’t think they make condoms in Fillory.” 

“I don’t want to think about the fucking wellspring,” Margo said. She spread her legs wider for him. “I want you to fuck me, and I want you to fuck me hard, and I don’t want to think about anything but you fucking me.” 

“Thought you liked it better on top?” 

“Yeah, well, tonight I’m in the mood to get fucked. Hard.” She stared at him. Her eyes burned into his, a scarily intense stare that was both unbelievably sexy and unnerving. “Fuck me, Quentin. I’m only going to say please once.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, kneeling between her legs. The head of his cock was slippery, his foreskin pulled all the way back. He positioned it at the opening of her lips and leaned down to kiss her. She moved on him, twisting her hips, desperate for an angle. He slid against her, his cock tucking itself neatly against her clit. Margo made a purring sound then, raked her nails over his back and rocked herself against him. Her wetness slipped against his, and he could feel the head of his cock teasing in her folds. As good as it felt against his sensitive underside, and as much as she seemed to like it, he remembered her demand and drew back, rounded and twisted his hips until he rested at her opening.

Margo gasped. Her hips thrust up to meet his, and he slipped instead a bit. Gods, she was tight. He felt her wet heat surrounding his head, enveloping it. He wanted to tease her, make her wait for it — she and Eliot had teased him last time — but he couldn’t hold back any longer and he thrust. She moaned and her hips rose to meet his. She rocked up and down on him as he moved over her, and managed this hip swivel thing he would have sworn afterwards may have been literally magical. She was taking all of him, she was so wet, licking and biting his lower lip when she wasn’t moaning about how big and hard and stiff he was. 

“Flip me over,” she begged. 

He withdrew and turned her, and she rose onto all fours with her perfect ass pointed at him. She raised it slightly, and he could see her dark pink slit, the wet folds now puffy and swollen with sex. 

His first thrust almost drove her into Eliot’s royal mound of pillows. He wished he could reach her neck from this angle, but it never worked out right — he and Alice had tried to many times for him to bother — but he held her hips and fucked her deep and hard. Margo moaned and held firm against every thrust. He stilled a moment, reached down with one hand and found her clit. It had swollen along with the rest of her, slicked. He thumbed it gently as he fucked her and she arched her back into him. Her breath came in ragged gasps, and she was tightening on him. 

She was going to come, hard. She pushed back against him and gasped. He met her thrust with his own, pressed her clit hard with his hand. Then they were coming together: her inner walls pulsing, massaging him as she cried out; his cock pumping hot cum into her each time she grabbed him harder. He finally collapsed on top of her back, still jerking a bit as she fluttered on him. Blue sparks settled lazily around them.

“Bambi, you always were a yeller,” Eliot said lazily. 

Quentin and Margo jumped apart as if a parent had walked in the room. “We were — I mean, I was just — and she was —“ Quentin was reduced to stammering. 

Eliot laughed and clapped softly, as if Quentin had sunk a putt in the third hole at the Master’s. “My dear Q, clearly you both needed _something_ ,” he said. “I go off to take care of my marital duty and look what happens in my absence. Two of my best friends decide to play without me. Oh well. At least I got to watch.” 

“How much did you see?” Margo asked. 

“Don’t you wish you knew?” He smirked. 

“Couldn’t you have just like, coughed or something?” Quentin asked. 

“And ruined the mood? Of course not, sweet Q. We all know I couldn’t have joined in, so what would the point have been? We all had much more fun this way.” 

“I’m going back to sleep,” Margo announced. “Is anyone joining me?” 

“It is my bed,” Eliot said. “I suppose Quentin’s bravo performance means he can stay. This time.” 

“Oh, shut up, Eliot,” Margo said, and lobbed a pillow in his direction. “Get over yourself. And hurry up about it, because I’ve got no shortage of these fuckers. How many pillows do you fucking need, anyway?” 

“As many as they could find,” he said smoothly. He climbed into bed and kissed Quentin on the mouth. “You done good, boy,” he said. “Now go the fuck to sleep.” 

Q got the middle of the cuddle puddle that night. He slept like he hadn’t slept since before the Beast, since before Alice had left. And when he woke and Margo was making girly snores, one leg thrown over him, he nuzzled her hair and wondered how rude it would be, really, if they made sure Eliot stayed asleep this time.

**Author's Note:**

> Margo mentions that after Quentin frees Alice, he spends three months in Fillory getting drunk and miserable. I'd imagine this takes place early on in that, before he really starts grating on her nerves and Eliot gets too obsessed with wedding preparations. This happens more than once in my head canon, because these are two really fucking unstable people at the moment, so stay tuned. 
> 
> And yes, I think spending time as a fox would definitely kink you out, and Quentin would be constantly thinking about Alice, not just because he's emo!Quentin but because he's genuinely, desperately missing her right now. 
> 
> The title, in case you're wondering, comes from a Goldfinger song I think is pretty apt in this case. You can look up the full lyrics online if you care about that sort of thing. 
> 
> This is my first publicly posted smut, so be very gentle and leave me some comments or I will never, ever, ever, have the courage to do this again.


End file.
